


Mortal kings are ruling castles

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: Alex dreams of winning. He dreams of Michael.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 27
Kudos: 54
Collections: RNM Fanfic Remix 2020





	Mortal kings are ruling castles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViolettaValery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/gifts).



> I got the chance to play in the dark fic sandbox that Violetta Valery created and I can't explain how excited I was. She made something tense and lovely and there was one line that I kept coming back to over and over:
> 
> "And sometimes, when he feels stuck at a dead end, he dreams about putting an impressed look on Michael’s face when he takes down his ship’s defenses and brings a fleet to its knees."   
> -from her fic [I am so much more than royal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20036260) (which you have all read I know because it's wonderful.)
> 
> So, this is my humble contribution to the beautiful verse she's created, because I am obsessed with the idea of Michael being able to dreamwalk the way Isobel did in OG. Thank you for letting me play in your world. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Many thanks to my on the fly betas. I adore you.

Alex has been through the plans for the final maneuver so many times he sees them in his dreams. The server room is a small cement square with heavy iron rebar coaxing the space inside the mountain back. His station is an array of monitors and the soft hum of mega computers whirring to his right. He’s surrounded by Michael. He’s surrounded by the alien language parsed out in careful code. The far left monitor shows the tracking of the fleet that sits just past the edge of the atmosphere. The fleet is in orbit, hovering between the moon and the Earth. Satellite reception is spotty, the hulking craft barely noticing as the delicate satellites crashed against where they shift in the oblong gravitational field. 

There are six monitors in front of him that flicker with a scroll of data and his lines of script, two to his left and a set of video displays to his right. He could watch Rome burn. He could watch the slow flip of feeds from what’s left of Buenos Aires. He can almost taste the smoldering ash of Philadelphia. He uses it as defining purpose, this critical and unvarnished destruction. It’s not elegant, not really. It’s systematic and methodical.

It’s math and physics. It’s _Michael._

Alex knows the grainy edges of Michael onscreen now, the way his curls dance in the breeze. The way it matches the flap of his cape. He knows the breadth of his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw. He knows the weight of Michael’s gaze and how it inevitably finds the camera. Alex knows the jolt of recognition when Michael smiles. He knows it’s for him. He can almost forget the blood and fire, almost forget the genocide rippling out from wherever Michael leads.

He sleeps slumped against the keyboards. 

It's supposed to be cool that day, the weather a typical sort of midwestern clear with the crisp fall edge that cuts as it skips over the evacuated streets like a stone. The war room has no walls, just the endless dark fields outside. The table is heavy oak, worn and lovely in the watery light. It’s covered in maps, topographical lines marked with the precise glyphs to represent the troops and the tactics. He watches the lines slide from the paper spread over the long oak table to wrap over his fingerprint and then slide up his arm. It’s sticky like honey. He watches the Generals pause, his father frozen in a rictus of rage, eyes blankly blue. They’re paused in planning. The lines are still sinking into his skin and Michael is in motion on a screen the size of a door, leaning a shoulder against the edge of the monitor from the inside and watching him under lowered lashes. 

Alex wants to taste his smile. He wants to know what secrets feel like on his lips.

Instead, he forces his fingers into the edge of the moment and tears it open, the light going stunning bright as the dream changes from the dark war room to the open plains around Indianapolis. It’s peppered with baseball fields and striped with highways. It’s dark and eerily empty, the high grass brushing against his calf. Alex can close his eyes and imagine the way the sky is alight through dusk into the night with battle, the purple-pink shielding on the Antaran fleet rippling under the press of gunfire. The lines of mortar shells dotting the sky like morse code, every tenth round lit with phosphorus tips.

The landscape races past. He’s walking but each step is devouring the miles between where he was and where he’s going. It wobbles to a stop and he's alone in a small square patch of grass, the statue in the center melted and the cement crumbling and scorched from the last campaign. It looks flat like a photograph. His focus moves from one picture to another until they’re slapping fast, stop-motion reality blending into charcoal and pastels. The world doesn’t make sense, but it rarely matters in dreams. 

And he is dreaming. 

He's alone and staring at the sky where the behemoth ship hovers silently and glows, throbbing in the night sky. Alex is alone and sure if he could just focus, he'd see stars.

He wants to _win_. He wants to be the man who wins battles. Alex Manes dreams of being the man to win the war.

He knows the exact moment the shield will melt, peeling away from the ship like a soap bubble spent too long in the air. He knows that the code will slip through the delicate lacework of it, shifting along the data waves to coil deep. He can count it, the dream slowing to a crawl. If he looks to the right, a soldier manning the artillery gun will be in half time, the snarl gone feral as her face is lit slow from the blast fire. He thinks idly that she's blonde. 

It's his dream and he can pluck the bullets from the air. The whole scene slowing enough that seconds take several breaths. It slows and he wants to savor this. He wants to savor the way he's brought the alien fleet to its _knees_.

Michael appears like he's been summoned, stepping out of a shadow like he's tossed the edge of his black cape back, and strides forward. Alex is angry at how beautiful he is. He's angry at the way his curls move in the breeze and his gaze feels like a physical touch.

"You dream of war." He sounds pleased and Alex wants to bite the line of his jaw, but settles for pushing his hands into his own pockets. 

"I dream of winning."

Michael smiles and Alex knows he's going to touch him just moments before he does. It's the same, the same touch as the first time. Michael moves close and traces the line of his cheek with a light thumb. He feels the way his dream throbs. It’s hot; the ache of it pulsing bright, then going dark before the war around them resumes.

“You dream of _me_.”

It’s chaos for a breath, just the white hot need that quickens under his skin. He’s lust - breathing roughly at the feel of Michael’s mouth on the back of his neck. He’s shaking at the throb of his pulse when Michael’s hands slip under his clothes and touch him. The dream changes and he’s watching from the outside. He can see them fucking. He can see the way Michael shoves into him, rough and reckless. He can see the way he’d moan, the way he’d want, the way he’d move. He can see the ripples of restless power shimmering around them. He’s hard and aching as Michael’s mouth trails over the back of his neck, the scuff of his stubble rashing red. 

He moans and startles awake. He’s blinking blearily at the lines of code before leaning back and staring down at the ache of his dick, hard and leaking in his pants.

Alex fucks his fist and watches Michael’s smile on the monitor.

He avoids sleep. He has a job to do. It’s important. He has a mission to save humanity. The small bunker room is filled with coffee cups and the stale smell of his body. He’s alone in his genius, tucked away into the dark limned by the blue gray light of monitors and vid screens. He’s on hour 32 of caffeine-fueled work when Russia attempts a nuclear strike as the alien armada hovers over Saint Petersburg. He watches the light of it, the scattered video feeds showing a mushroom cloud as the Smol'nyy Sobor crumbles in the blast wave. The horse statue at the west bank of the Anichkov Bridge goes hot and melts. He watches, fingers paused as the feed flickers and goes dark. He never lets himself hope. The Saint Isaac’s Square is nothing but the bones of buildings and haunted streets.

He dreams that Michael slips a hand between his face and the keyboard, turning his eyes to look at him as he touches the pad of his thumb lightly to Alex’s mouth. He’s angry, simmering with rage even as Michael watches him open his mouth and strokes over his tongue. He’s angry even as Michael ducks and they crash together, hungry and rabid. It’s surreal, the ache of it. It’s sweet and burning, twisting in his chest as Michael snarls and pushes his hands into Alex’s pants. It’s feral and Alex glares as Michael strokes him. He groans and smirks at the longing that flickers briefly over Michael’s gaze. 

“I’ll kill you.”

“No, darlin’, you won’t.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Never.”

His dreams are fevered, sweat and teeth. It’s fucking and the tender stroke of a thumb over his cheek. It’s fisting Michael’s curls in his hands while he rides the thick weight of his cock. He’s overstimulated and reeling. Michael takes him night after night. It’s possessive and rough; he dreams of it and wakes up hard and wanting. He comes to the half-remembered scrape of Michael’s mouth licking against him, opening him with the soft and insistent stab of tongue. He comes to the feeling of hands on hands on hands as Michael watches him from somewhere in the dark and touches at him with the impossible weight of his gift. He’s impaled, stretched open and leaking as the invisible touch swells inside him.

He wakes sore. He wakes feeling the phantom press of fingers. He wakes and he wants and he works. He’s got a war to win. The military manages to take down two drones and it’s something. It’s bits of Michael that he can touch. 

Later, when he’s slipped under and succumbed to the weight of sleep, Michael watches him turn the broken edges over in his hands. Michael watches him wonder. They’re across the table from each other and Michael watches him with quiet, careful eyes. His curls are perfect and Alex wants to slip his fingers into them and drag his head back, wants to touch his teeth to his chin and feel the crackling slip of stubble against his lips.

He can feel Michael wanting him. It presses against him like the shimmering golden light that ebbs and flows over the surface of the broken ship piece. He wants to slot against him-

“Pieces want to be together,” Michael says, voice a soft low noise in the dark. The desire is welling. Alex feels like he could drown in it.

“What do you mean?” He can feel the edges of need lapping at him, sipping at his breath the way Michael pauses between kisses sometimes. It’s pulling at him, subsuming and devouring him. He thinks idly about what would happen if he let go; what would happen if he sank.

When he slips under, Michael is there. Michael is waiting. He’s slammed against walls and fucked from behind. He’s lifted and pressed face-first into tables. He’s fucking Michael’s mouth. He’s obsessed and wanton. He lets himself dream of it. He lets himself linger there. 

He allows it. He allows it because Michael’s answer was one word bitten into his skin.

“ _Mine_.”

Michael presses against his back when he dreams of the final maneuver. He presses and turns his mouth against the divot just behind his ear. Alex melts back against him and sighs hungrily at the feel of Michael’s hands. Michael’s hands are on him, working him as gunfire peppers the night sky, as it streaks over the Indiana fields to batter endlessly against the shimmer of force fields.

“Show me,” Michael whispers, and Alex can only grin. He knows what’s happening. He can feel Michael wanting against him, it’s heavy between them. The weight of looks and violence. The weight of war and wanting.

He’s hissing quick-panted breaths through his teeth as Michael works him. It will only take minutes once the program is released. It will be beautiful, slipping under the defenses and scattering out in a slow spiral as it infects everything it touches. Alex wants Michael’s hand at his throat, wants the blunt feel of his cock sliding heavy and hot between his thighs. He wants Michael inside him as it plays out - the glorious design of death and victory.

Michael touches his tongue to the shell of his ear and it feels so real - the wavering cool breeze across the midwestern plains. The crackling cadence of gunfire under the shriek of jet engines. He can feel Michael’s fingers slip to touch at him, to open him with a rough, needy press even as his complex code slips inside everything Michael brought with him to shatter it and leave it defenseless and vulnerable.

“I’ll kill you,” he breathes around a low and aching moan when Michael shoves into him, hand at his throat and power holding him still as they watch the shielding burst in slow motion, peeling back and away from the sleek lines of Michael’s ship. “I’ll win this war.”

Michael fucks him while the world burns, a proud growl that is possession and pining echoes in his ear. 

“Beautiful.” Michael is violence. Michael is blood and need. Michael is power - it rolls off of him in waves, shimmering and opulent. They fuck in the field watching Alex’s code destroy the alien ships one by one until they’re coming, gasping and sticky. The sky is falling and they’re spent.

Alex turns his head and dreams of the impressed look - soft-eyed and wondering in the flickering fire of destruction. He dreams of Michael turning to kiss his fingers when he reaches to touch it.

He wakes and watches the scroll of his code on the monitor.


End file.
